


Unrolled Waves

by kashiichan



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Other, Poetry, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 23:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20161636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashiichan/pseuds/kashiichan
Summary: "Light and dark are no enemies / But one companion." — Dylan ThomasThey meet on the fault-line between ocean and earth.





	Unrolled Waves

A kind man was born in the direction of the beginning,  
On wet-gravel paths under harpstrung trees.  
A cold man, brave in his burning pride,  
Fell like a hailstone cut from mercury.

I followed sleep and dreamed my genesis,  
Supernova and nebulae in my breast.  
Kicked from a dark den, leaping up the light,  
My cognate bared his teeth.

In the sifted snow on the tip of the tongue of the year,  
An enamoured man with a bloody wave of hair  
Camped alone by a blue fire of comfort and nerves,  
Savouring the heat of time with night in his eyes.

Through the earth the loud sea walked.  
There in the sunset and sunrise,  
Heart unlocked upon the gigantic earth,  
The tempter under my eyelid promised a secret heat.

I saw through his faded eyes to the root of the sea,  
Across throats where many rivers met.  
His long-legged flesh was a curl-locked cage:  
Hollowed, happy and greedy under a managed storm.

O enemy not of my choice,  
Make for me a nettle's innocence!  
Where there is love, there's agony;  
There's sex where our mad hands rest.

If the unpricked ball of my breath  
Bumps on a spout, let the bubbles jump out;  
There is nothing left of the sea but its sound, and  
These stolen bubbles have the bites of snakes.

O make me a mask and a door, closed to  
Sharp shaded eyes and enamelled claws.  
I am yet to be lighted of my sins and days;  
We dust-drenched two must wait.

On my small, bonebound island I have learnt all I know;  
I'm a fisherman lost on the land,  
Burying deep my long-legged heart.  
The dear floods of his hair water my seed.

Rub off the scrawl of prints on body and air and building;  
Bury all rubbish and love signs,  
Leaving one rich street with hunger in it.  
We abide with our pride on this turning lump of mistakes.

Time kills me terribly. Should I,  
Stuck on the hot and rocking street,  
Not stare at an old year toppling and burning  
In a muddle of towers and galleries?

Die in red feathers when the flying heaven's cut  
And roll with the knocked earth.  
Lie dry, rest robbed, my deep beast:  
You dug your grave in my chest.

My chorus lies wrecked, steered by falling stars.  
Though the brawl of the kiss has not occurred  
On my waiting mouth, his tears burn my cheeks.  
If we don't meet again I shall throw away my trust.

I fled the earth and, naked, climbed the weather  
Reaching a second ground far from the stars.  
I climbed to greet the war in which I had no ardor;  
To one blazing dark I owe my light.

I was told to reason by the pulse  
And when it quickens, alter the actions' pace.  
I was taught to reason by the heart  
But heart, like head, leads helplessly.

Sing a hymn and go, lost in the unknown  
Rage and rebellion in the nurseries of my face.  
I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me  
As joy lifts its head, wonderful with surprise.

I do not fear the apple, nor the flood,  
Nor the bad blood of spring.  
I do not fear the gallows, nor the sword,  
Nor the crossed sticks of war.

If there's no beginning our love, there's no end to us  
Or an interlude between the abstract.  
O my true love, hold me hard!  
Hinder my kiss or my knife.

My blood is drawn from the veins of roses.  
Your anchor dives through the floors of the church;  
I see, through briar and stone, that dark sea of love below.  
Teach me love that is evergreen after the fall leaves.

His articulate eyes, goldbright as a bird's;  
The light of his thighs, spreadeagle to the dunghill sky;  
A whirled boat in the burning sea of his blood.  
When the morning came it was like Spring in the middle of Winter.

Who writes my history?  
With new strength, I seek the sun.  
Dark is a way and light is a place;  
Love me and lift your mask.

**Author's Note:**

> I devoured _[The Poems of Dylan Thomas](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/20724709-the-poems-of-dylan-thomas)_ in one sitting, went to bed, and then spat this out as soon as I woke up. My subconscious took some of my favourite bits of Dylan's poetry and rearranged them into a new story; it's really more like a jigsaw than it is a poem. However after I sent it to my friend L, they told me that "assembling 500 word-bits into [a Welsh sunset river landscape](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Welsh_art#/media/File:A_Welsh_Sunset_River_Landscape_by_Paul_Sandby,_RA.jpg) is still something to be proud of", then bullied me into posting it here. (Thank you, my dear.)


End file.
